


Don't Mind Us

by AgentCoop



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Aaron POV, Aaron and Andrew glare at each other, Aaron and Neil maybe have a bonding moment, Aaron's a mess but he's trying, But they bond too, Drinking, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:09:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28968831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: “Sometimes I dream about killing you," Aaron grits out.A month ago, Andrew would have smiled his dangerous, feral smile, snapped his fingers, declared the session over, and left.Today, he stays.
Relationships: Aaron Minyard & Andrew Minyard, Katelyn/Aaron Minyard, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 34
Kudos: 183
Collections: AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2021





	Don't Mind Us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinistercacophony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistercacophony/gifts).



> Hey all! This is my Mixtape Exchange gift for [SinisterCacophony](https://sinistercacophony.tumblr.com/) who gave me the coolest song ever that I immediately got mad Twinyard vibes from. 
> 
> Super sweet song [HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ahN0f0r9JQ)
> 
> **Couple of content notes:**
> 
> 1\. This is a fic about Aaron dealing (or not) with his trauma post Drake trial. There are very minimal references to Drake, but the name comes up.  
> 2\. There is a lot of talk of blood in Aaron's nightmares. There's nothing super graphic, but he's not having a great time.
> 
> Thank you so much to the organizers of the exchange-this totally rocked!
> 
> Hope you all enjoy <3

Sometimes, Aaron dreams of blood.

They are insidious things. They are dreams that follow him into waking hours, twisting his reality into something worse, something wrong, something bad. He smells blood when he wakes up. He tastes blood when he drinks his cup of coffee from the dregs of yesterday’s, just before he rushes out of the dorms for practice. He sees blood on his fingers the moment before Kevin shoots a ball at his face, and he barely ducks out of the way on time.

They are dreams that linger.

They are dreams that follow him into the bathroom where he scrubs his hands so hard they blister red, but there is never enough scalding hot water to remove the feeling of caked blood on his knuckles.

Today is a blood dream day.

His Microbiology professor is standing in front of the lecture hall delivering what might possibly be the most boring lecture in the history of lectures on radioactive isotopes and really, in theory, it’s an interesting subject, so Aaron’s trying to focus enough to at least take notes, but then he blinks and all he can smell is copper.

He ducks his head down, trying to surreptitiously sniff the collar of his preppy black polo that Katelyn made him buy because it made him look _sexy_. It smells like clean cotton, and his deodorant, and definitely blood.

Fuck, today is a bad day for this. He has an organic chem final in three hours that he’s been studying for going on two straight weeks, and he’s got to pass that class. He doesn’t have time for this bullshit.

Aaron tries to sink down in his seat further to see if it’s just his shirt or if it’s the rest of him too, but then he bumps a knee into the chair in front of him, and then his pencil rolls off the desk, and then the girl in front of him turns and gives him a glare.

He shoots her a prize-winning Minyard glare in return, bends over, and picks up his pencil.

It’s all in his head. He knows it’s all in his head. There's a new therapist he’s been going to–one who isn’t Betsy. Betsy deals with Andrew, and Betsy deals with Andrew and Aaron, but Betsy does not deal with _just_ Aaron because that’s a client confidentiality nightmare.

Anyway. He’s seeing this new guy who wears argyle sweaters, and plastic framed glasses, and has hair that’s going prematurely white, and doesn’t smile, which Aaron likes. And new guy, _Dr. Fritz_ says it’s in Aaron’s head because Aaron is grappling with PTSD plus a good heaping dose of depression and anxiety. He says these sorts of _intrusive memories_ are a completely normal symptom of trauma. He says that Aaron’s supposed to breathe. That he’s supposed to think of a color that he likes and try to breathe as much of it in as he can and imagine it flooding every part of his body. Then he’s supposed to slowly breathe it out again. He’s supposed to keep his eyes open and find something to ground himself with. He’s supposed to know that this isn’t real, this isn’t happening, it’s okay that he thinks it is, but it is _not rea_ l.

Right now, Aaron’s heart is beating too fast in his chest, and breathing isn’t working so great, and that color thing is bullshit because he doesn’t have a favorite color so sometimes he starts trying to breath in green but then it changes to black halfway through and he can still smell blood so what’s the fucking point.

Somewhere below him, Professor Boring turns off the computer projector and tells them that their final exam will be taking place next week. He waves, and the class is over.

So Aaron stands up.

He closes his laptop and tucks it into his backpack.

He forces himself out of the class, and out to the sidewalk, and back down the path to the dorms, and up to the room he shares with Matt and Nicky now because he’s no longer a Monster, there is no more Us vs. Them. He strips out of the black polo shirt and buries it at the bottom of his drawer because he’s never wearing it again.

Then he pulls on one of his old PSU t-shirts and texts Katelyn.

 **[12:43 PM] Aaron:** Hey

It takes her a couple of minutes because she’s in between classes right now and is probably either grabbing lunch with a couple of the Vixens, or headed to the library because she also has a final this afternoon, but hers is in sociology.

 **[12:48 PM] Katelyn** : Hey! What’s up?

 **[12:48 PM] Aaron:** Miss you

**[12:49 PM] Katelyn:** ❤️ ❤️ ❤️

**[12:50 PM] Katelyn:** You alright? I’ve got an hour break, want me to come by?

She’s got a sixth sense for this sort of meltdown and he loves her for it, but it also just makes him feel worse. She doesn’t deserve this shit.

 **[12:50 PM] Aaron** : Naa, it’s good. See you tonight?

 **[12:50 PM] Katelyn:** Absolutely. Love you!

She’s bubbly. Cheery. The Yin to his fucking Yang. Aaron tucks his phone back in his pocket, and stares at the bunk beds in front of him. They’d just switched rooms a few weeks ago, and even though he’s the one who pushed for it in the first place, it still feels weird.

Nicky’s on the top bunk, bedding flung every which way. His computer is up there, not plugged in, just laying there because he doesn’t take care of his shit. There are a couple of textbooks buried towards the bottom, and the pair of sweatpants he was wearing last night thrown on top of the mix just for added chaos.

Matt’s bed is on the other side of the room. There’s a PSU fleece blanket pooled on top from where he and Dan were watching a movie last night, but there’s not much else because most of the time he stays over with her.

Aaron’s bed is made. There are two pillows now, because sometimes Katelyn spends the night and she likes having her own pillow. Sometimes she doesn’t spend the night, and Aaron likes having her pillow there anyway because it smells like her.

Their desks are all pushed against the far wall. Matt’s is empty. Nicky’s has books, and paper, and garbage, and a random candle gathering dust, and at least eight different chargers that don’t connect to anything.

Aaron’s desk is the one against the window. There are six different textbooks stacked, pages full of those little colorful sticky tabs. The pack of sticky tabs is also out, lying next to the books. Aaron walks over and takes his laptop from his backpack, setting it down in the open space and plugging it into the power cable.

Neat.

Organized.

Successful.

Smart.

Motivated.

Honor Student.

_Killer._

Aaron chews his lower lip, nudges the laptop until it’s square with the corner of the desk, then walks back over to his bed and sits down.

It’s quiet right now.

That’s something that has just started to take shape in the last month. Used to be that everyone followed Andrew because Andrew had the gravitational pull of a dying star. Used to be that there was no choice but to travel in clumps, that safety was greater in numbers, that one step away from Andrew was one step closer to the loneliness that sometimes threatened to eat Aaron alive.

Then Neil showed up.

Matt’s probably somewhere with Dan. Nicky could be anywhere. Neil and Andrew are Neil and Andrew, Kevin’s probably at the court sulking that no one else is at the court with him.

Aaron is alone.

Aaron isn’t used to being alone.

Scowling, Aaron kicks his heel against the foot of the bed, listening to the hollow thunk of rubber hitting the cheap wood. He should be studying. Organic chem almost killed him this semester–between exy and the trial, he was already barely scraping by–and if he has to take it again next semester then he’s just royally screwed his four year plan.

But he can’t study because the smell of blood is even worse here. Because there’s no other sound but hollow ringing in his ears. Because every time he blinks he sees Drake.

Because sometimes, Aaron dreams of blood.

***

“What number?”

Aaron stares at the desk in front of him. There’s one of those Newton’s cradle things, but the silver balls hang still. He has a sudden urge to pull one free and listen to the smack of it hitting the others, but that would mean moving and right now he doesn’t really feel like moving.

“Four, I guess. And six.”

The number thing is new. He’s supposed to give a range of where he’s at–the low number is how low he feels, the high number is how high. His mood swings weren’t ever anything he paid attention to before, but Dr. Fritz has him reporting nonetheless, like maybe that’s the piece of the puzzle they’re missing, like maybe if the number gap closes enough, Fritz can say “Bye, see you, you’ve healed, you’re no longer a mess, you’re a person again.”

Fritz doesn’t say any of those things. He just nods, then pushes the black plastic framed glasses further up his nose. “It’s finals week,” he says.

Sure is. Aaron watches the motionless balls.

“How are you managing your stress levels?”

_I’m not. Last night I got so trashed I puked all morning and I’m only here because Katelyn had a study session and Andrew took the Mas somewhere with Neil, and Nicky and Kevin and Matt were playing videogames so loud it made me puke again, and I had nowhere better to be._

He doesn’t say that. He says, “Alright.”

“And sleep?”

“Alright.”

“Aaron.”

Aaron doesn’t look at him because he’s one step from cracking completely open and that’s not really at the top of his agenda for the afternoon. He still has a final tomorrow. He still has a final next week. He doesn’t have time for whatever bullshit his brain is trying to pull.

“Can I tell you what I’m noticing?”

“Whatever.”

“Alright.” Fritz clears his throat. “I know we have a long way to go before there is a line of trust between us. This is a relatively new setup and I’m in no way expecting you to open up completely when we’ve only known each other for seven sessions. That said. You look tired. You look sick. And I want to make sure that if some of the stress coping methods we’ve chatted about in the past aren’t working now, we can try to come up with a few to try for the future. Sound good?”

“Yup.” Aaron sneaks a look at the clock on the desk and what do you know, it’s been exactly two fucking minutes. Fuck this.

“So we talked about breathing in colors–”

“Not working.”

“Alright, not a problem. This is going to sound a little ridiculous, but I’ve had quite a few patients have success with one of those little breathing videos. You can find them on Youtube. You know what I mean? The little opening lotus flowers, or squares building up type. The idea is to breathe through an entire segment of opening, then let it out while the image closes. Worth a try?”

“Yup.”

It’s not worth it. It _is_ a little ridiculous, and it’s not going to work, and he doesn’t even want to try because he’s just really fucking tired of it all.

Aaron scowls. Sometimes, he’s not sure how to do this therapy thing. He knows that he should be opening up, because otherwise how the hell _would_ Fritz know what might work? He knows that he should be speaking in more than one word sentences because otherwise, what’s the fucking point?

He also knows that days like today are not talking days. Days like today are the days that he actually likes exy, because he can stick a helmet on his head, hit things, and run till he drops.

Fitz is nodding though, like with that single _Yup_ , Aaron’s just given him everything he ever wanted. He turns the conversation over to finals, and then exy, and then Katelyn. These are easy to talk about. These are single cell, one-shade conversation topics. He took his finals. He went to practice. He loves Katelyn. End of story, nothing new.

Then Fitz asks about the nightmares.

If Aaron’s far enough outside of one, then this isn’t a problem. He doesn’t mind giving details (sparingly), or listening to Fitz discuss trauma response.

Today though, everything’s still too raw. He’s stopped smelling blood everywhere he goes, but his nerves are still on high alert. He’s still terrified of it happening again. Which is why he drowned himself in a bottle of tequila last night, because if he gets fucking plastered, he doesn’t dream. If he gets plastered, he doesn’t care that sometimes Andrew still looks at him like he’s a broken thing that needs to be protected, like he’s something sub-human, like he’s something that never had a chance.

Win win.

“Aaron?”

Fitz is waiting for something Aaron doesn’t want to give. Every time he swallows, it’s around knives tearing up his throat. “I don’t really want to talk about that today,” he finally manages.

“Did you have one last night?”

This is why he likes Fitz. There’s no bullshit. There’s no Betsy nodding quietly and waiting for someone to fill the space when they finally feel like talking. There are expectations, and Aaron has always been good at pretending he meets them.

“Two nights ago,” he mutters.

“Alright. Same as before?”

“Mostly.”

“Do you want to describe it?”

 _Nope, nope, nope_. “No thanks,” Aaron says drily.

“Fair enough.”

Now that they’re here though, now that they’ve arrived at the crux of the matter and Fitz has forced the issue, Aaron can’t seem to think about anything else. And it’s therapy, and he’s paying for it (okay, the school is paying for it) but he may as well just go for it and feel like shit later. Because why fucking not.

He reaches out and finally grabs the first silver ball. Pulls it and lets go. Watches the one on the other side bounce out and then click in again. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.

“Still me holding the racquet,” Aaron finally says. “There was no Drake. This time it was Neil. Smashed his head in. Pretty sure he was dead on the first smack but I just kept hitting anyway. There was more blood than there should have been, so I knew it was a dream, but it just kept coming until it was over my shoes, and then up to my knees. By the time it reached to my thighs, it was Andrew’s face, not Neil’s. But it didn’t matter because I kept hitting.”

There.

Out.

Done.

Over.

_Killer._

Fitz just nods, lips pursed as he watches Aaron, waiting for just a second to see if there is anything else Aaron might add.

There isn’t.

“That sounds like a bad one,” he says.

“Yup.”

“Alright. Did it carry over to the next day like the others?”

“Yup.”

“I know that you had a big final yesterday. Were you able to make it through?”

Aaron shrugs because he’s tired of saying _“Yup.”_

“Did anything make it better? I know you said earlier that the color breathing wasn’t helpful. Did you find any other methods of coping?”

Drinking a fifth of tequila probably wasn’t the answer he was looking for. “Not really,” Aaron lies. “It’s fine. It’s over now.”

It’s not, really, because talking about it is making his palms sweat, and even though he’s still nauseous from the hangover, all he can think about is getting his hands on the open bottle of whiskey that Dan left in their kitchen three nights ago.

Fitz studies Aaron for a moment, then sets his pen down, leans back, and crosses his arms over his argyle sweater–green and grey today. Then he launches into discussion of scheduling appointments twice weekly instead of just the one, mentions a sleeping aid (Aaron vigorously shakes his head no,) and finally, circles back to breathing exercises.

Aaron tries to listen.

He’s studying to be a fucking doctor. Psychology isn’t his field of practice, but it should at the very least be vaguely interesting. Instead, all he can think about is the feel of an exy racquet in his hands as he smashes bone so hard it shatters.

The session finally ends. Aaron stands, Fitz says something about seeing him next week, Aaron gives some sort of perfunctory nod, the Newton’s cradle goes still again, Aaron forces his body to stand up from the chair, walk from the office, take the elevator down, and exit the building.

Katelyn is sitting on the bench outside, cheerily waiting for him with her bright smile.

“Hey!”

Aaron swallows. He tries to say something, but he can’t seem to choke words out past his swollen tongue. She isn’t supposed to be here. She’s supposed to be studying. Or eating. Or sleeping. Or doing anything but waiting for him right now when all he can think about is the way Drake’s eyes stayed open even after he was dead.

His hands are starting to shake, so he stuffs them in his pocket and swallows again.

“Hey.” She steps forward and gently touches his arm. “Aaron? You alright?”

He’s not. “I’m fine,” he grunts, then winces, because that’s what asshole Josten always says, and the team always gets snippy about it, because apparently asshole Josten is someone worth fighting for.

He doesn’t think they’d blink twice if they heard him say it.

But that’s fine, because he _is_ fine, this is just a temporary thing, this is just trauma. _Post traumatic stress disorder._ Not permanent. Fixable.

Katelyn gives his hand a squeeze and nuzzles in next to him, fitting herself right under his arm.

She’s warm.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, soft enough for only him and no one else. “I didn’t think about it. I should have let you know I was coming.”

Aaron takes deep breath and lets her steer them towards the coffee shop they always meet at every afternoon, where she orders a triple shot espresso, and he orders a black coffee in the largest cup they make, where they drink them down in a hurry and then head to the library to study and study and sometimes kiss, but mostly study.

Katelyn is so much smarter than he is.

“Aaron?”

Aaron blinks. She’s staring at him because she was talking, and he was sinking deeper and deeper into stupid, murky, self deprecation.

“Did you want coffee?” she asks again.

“Actually–”

She understands, and immediately turns them towards her dorm. “No worries,” she says brightly, leaning her head against his shoulder.

He can smell her hair.

Fuck, he loves her.

Katelyn’s dorm is blissfully empty. She's saying something about her roommate finishing finals early and leaving that morning, but Aaron is only half listening. His head is still pounding from the tequila, his body feels the bad sort of fuzzy that it gets after a rough therapy session, but Katelyn is Katelyn. The second the door closes, Aaron pulls her in for a kiss, Katelyn wraps her arms around the back of his neck, Aaron pushes her over towards the bed, Katelyn pulls him down on top of her, Aaron follows the taste of her all the way down to the her fluffy grey comforter.

There’s a certain spot right at the curve of her neck that always makes her bite her bottom lip and Aaron noses there, watching her eyes close as she throws her head back just before pulling him even closer.

Katelyn is always loud, and Katelyn is always eager, and Katelyn so fucking smart, and Katelyn is everything he’d ever wanted.

Sometimes, he loses himself in the little sounds she makes, and it’s enough to make everything almost alright.

Outside the room, someone runs down the hall screaming.

Drake didn’t scream.

Aaron closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and pushes a hand up underneath her shirt. He unhooks her bra and runs a thumb around her nipple and kisses her, kisses her, kisses her. She smells like vanilla, and a little bit like the floral shampoo she uses, and nothing at all like blood.

Aaron blinks.

Katelyn’s fingers are at his jeans, flicking the button open before pushing underneath the waistband of his boxers.

This is supposed to be what he wants.

Aaron ignores the pounding at his temples and keeps his eyes open, because otherwise he sees Andrew, and he sees Neil, and he sees Drake.

Sometimes he worries that _post traumatic stress disorder_ isn’t so temporary, that this is more than just trauma, that he might not ever be okay again, that maybe he was never okay in the first place.

***

“You want to stay?”

Aaron groans, then pushes himself off his stomach onto his side and watches as Katelyn wiggles back into her jeans. “I have one more final,” he says.

“I know. It’s fine if you need to study!” She fingers the button closed then leans over the bed and kisses him before reaching for her bra.

“Yeah,” he says, watching her snap it on easily and shrug through the straps. “I probably should.”

“Okay!” She wriggles back into her sweater, then bends over and kisses him again. “Call me? Or text. If you need. Please don’t…”

There isn’t an end to that sentence but he can see it clear enough in her eyes.

_Please don’t drink so much you pass out._

_Please don’t turn off your phone._

_Please don’t go to Columbia and drink, and dust, and get so lost you forget you’re Aaron._

_Please don’t disappear._

“I’ve got practice in the morning,” he says, grabbing his own t-shirt from the floor and shrugging it on. “But I’ll call you after. Okay?”

“Perfect. I love you,” she says with a bright, sparkling smile, but eyes that look sad.

“Love you too,” Aaron says.

He grabs his phone, he grabs his wallet, he kisses her one more time, and he leaves.

***

The Foxhole Court.

He’s used to the enormity of the stadium now, but he can still remember how overwhelming it seemed when they’d first arrived two years ago. Then, it was a means to an end. A scholarship. A path out of a shitty life that had done him no favors. He didn’t like the other Foxes because the other Foxes were trash and Aaron was more than that. Aaron was smart, Aaron had goals, Aaron was more than a stupid asshole athlete.

That attitude didn’t get him far, especially with Andrew at the helm.

It took him exactly six months to realize that he needed the Foxes, and it took him exactly six months and one day to realize that the Foxes didn’t need him.

Tonight, the parking lights are all on, but the stadium lights are dark.

He’s supposed to be studying, but he left Katelyn’s for his dorm room, and his dorm room was full of Nicky and random Nicky-friends, and he wanted to be alone.

So here he is.

Pathetic.

Aaron keys the password in at one of the doors and takes another drink from the bottle of whiskey he’s carrying. He makes his way down the long, dark hallway, passing the equipment room, and the training room, the locker room and the lounge. He walks all the way down until he’s standing on the floor of the stadium, then takes the steps up to the bleachers.

He’s not alone.

Neil Josten looks like a smudge in the darkness, but eventually Aaron’s eyes adjust. He’s sitting in the third row, elbows on his knees, face in his hands, staring out over the dark court. He doesn’t look over at Aaron, not even when Aaron climbs the rows and sits down one seat over.

“Why are you here?” Aaron asks. His voice is rough around the edges, and full of bitterness, even though he should have expected this. The court isn’t his domain. It never was.

Neil doesn’t turn to face him, just shrugs. “I was out running,” he says, like that explains everything.

“Why’d you stop,” Aaron mutters.

“Sometimes, running doesn’t help.”

“Sitting alone in the middle of a dark stadium that holds 40,000 people does?”

“Sometimes. You tell me. You’re here, too.”

“Yeah.” Aaron kicks his feet up on the seat in front of him and leans back in the chair. “I guess I am.”

He can hear the faint roar of a vacuum cleaner from somewhere deep in the building. The court smells like wax and metal, and the faint scent of sweat still permeates the stands. Even though they’re Foxes, even though up until this last semester no one had any hopes of them ever winning anything, they could pack this stadium full on game nights. Outside the plexiglass of the exy court, the sound is always deafening. Inside, it’s still loud enough to be a distraction if you don’t work to block it out.

Now?

The entire building feels hollow, like his ears need to pop but just won’t. The silence is thick enough that it’s hard to breathe.

“Andrew’s at the dorms,” Neil says suddenly.

Aaron frowns.

Turning his head, Neil finally looks at him. “If you were looking for him?”

“Why would I come to the exy court to find my brother?”

“Oh. I don’t know. I guess I just figured...why else are you here?”

Idiot. Aaron kicks the chair in front of him. It wobbles and gives a hollow thump that still doesn’t manage to break through the heavy silence. “Just needed to get away.” He takes another drink.

Neil nods. “Nightmares?”

Aaron flicks him an irritated glance. This isn’t a fucking heart to heart. This is nothing.

Neil doesn’t seem deterred, but then again, he’s never been one to take a hint. “I’ve been having them too,” he says quietly, turning back to the court.

Aaron holds the bottle of whiskey up. There’s a very faint glow of light from the hall, and it illuminates the amber liquid as it sloshes around.

There isn’t much left.

Aaron kicks at the seat again. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Why did you sit down next to me?” Neil counters.

Aaron doesn’t have a reason for that either. Maybe because he doesn’t want to turn around and leave again just because Neil fucking Josten is in his way. Maybe because he thought it would annoy Neil and that would be mildly amusing. Maybe because sometimes, he looks at Neil and sees that awful loneliness in his eyes–the same kind that fills Aaron’s chest up so high he can hardly breathe around it.

He closes his eyes. The vacuum cleaner cuts off. Neil’s breathing next to him, and Aaron’s own heartbeat is thick in his ears. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but he doesn’t reach for it.

“I keep dreaming about Drake,” he says, because he’s had too much whiskey, because six months ago everything went to shit and he doesn’t know how to fix it.

“I keep dreaming about Riko,” Neil says.

That’s surprising.

Aaron offers the bottle to Neil and Neil takes it, drinks deep, then hands it back.

Also surprising.

“I know it’s the other stuff that should get to me,” Neil says quietly. “My dad. That basement. Baltimore. Fuck, that’s the stuff that should give me nightmares. But I just keep seeing Riko.”

Aaron doesn’t know what happened to Riko. Suicide is the word they used in the press, but he saw Kevin that night, watched him drink an entire bottle of vodka and fall apart on the bathroom floor, and it wasn’t grief.

It was terror.

“I keep dreaming about the blood,” Aaron says, because it feels like he owes Neil something now.

Give and take.

Push and pull.

Andrew and Aaron and Katelyn and Neil.

“Riko was the second man I saw killed in that tower,” Neil says. “His death was clean though. Bullet straight between the eyes. Same death I’ll get I guess...if I don’t fulfill my end of the deal. Clean…” his voice falls off and he holds a hand out.

Aaron passes him the whiskey again.

They sit there for a long time–long enough that the vacuum starts up again in another room, long enough that Aaron’s phone buzzes three more times, long enough for Aaron to think that Neil might be the closest to understanding him than anyone else he knows.

The fucking irony.

***

Betsy is smiling.

Andrew sits across from him wearing his I-am-not-impressed face and Aaron leans forward on the couch, wearing his fuck-you-neither-am-I face. He’d showered after morning practice because of course he had, but he swears he can still smell sweat.

His breath still tastes metallic from the whiskey last night.

Betsy keeps smiling.

She’s doing the waiting thing, the thing Aaron hates. It always gives Andrew the upper hand because Andrew can wait out anything. The entire universe could come to a fucking fiery end and Andrew would still be sitting here looking utterly bored.

Aaron rolls his eyes. “I don’t miss you,” he finally says, because Betsy had asked “How are you feeling now that you are living in separate rooms?”

Betsy had _meant_ “How are you feeling now that your co-dependency issues are becoming a forced issue”, but Betsy was too nice to put it that way.

Fitz would have just said it.

“Tragic,” Andrew responds.

A month ago, Aaron would have said “Fuck you,” flipped him off, and left the session.

Today, he just stares Andrew down.

“Andrew,” Betsy nudges.

Andrew scowls, but doesn’t look away from Aaron. “It’s different,” he finally grunts.

There is something awful working its way out of Aaron’s throat, something with claws and teeth and jagged edges. He swallows, but it refuses to budge.

“Aaron?” Betsy asked.

“Sometimes I dream about killing you,” he says.

He regrets it immediately. That is something private. It’s something between him, and Fitz, and sometimes Katelyn, and no one else. No one.

Andrew blinks, but otherwise stays perfectly still.

Betsy doesn’t say anything.

Of course she doesn’t. She’s Betsy. She waits.

Aaron swallows again, but it’s not getting better. He stares down at his knees. There’s a spot near his knee where the denim is starting to fray and he picks at one of the white threads with his fingers. “I don’t want to,” he finally said. “Kill you I mean. I used to. Want that. Fuck, I used to want a brother but all I got was a possessive asshole who destroyed everything I ever cared about, so I used to want to kill you. And it’s fucking unfair because now I have a brother who’s still a possessive asshole but I want him anyway. And it’s at the cost of...fuck. You know, every time I look at you, I see him? Drake? You know that? Fuck.”

Andrew still hasn’t moved an inch, but Aaron can see his fingers clasp tightly against his leg–joints white with tension.

“Sometimes I dream about killing you...” Aaron grits out, “... but mostly I dream about killing him.”

A month ago, Andrew would have smiled his dangerous, feral smile, snapped his fingers, declared the session over, and left.

Today, he stays.

“I’d do it again,” Aaron says. His eyes flick back up to Andrew’s. “I’d kill him again.”

It’s not a weight off his chest. This is no stunning moment of realization, or self-improvement. It hurt before, and it hurt when he said it, and it still hurts now.

“Andrew?” Betsy finally prods, after far too long.

Andrew doesn’t smile. “I’d kill her again too.”

Nodding, Aaron looks back down at his jeans. “I know.”

They don’t say anything else. The clock on the wall keeps ticking, the A/C kicks on, and no one says anything. Eventually, Betsy declares the session over, and she smiles, and Andrew doesn’t, and Aaron doesn’t, and that’s okay.

Aaron follows Andrew out the door. The second they get outside, Andrew pulls his cigarettes from his pocket, taps one out, and lights it.

“Those will kill you,” Aaron says, mostly because it’s something to say.

Andrew flicks him a cool look. “I hear you’ve taken to nighttime stadium visitations.”

Fucking Neil Josten. Asshole. Aaron kicks at the ground with his sneaker and watches gravel skitter across the parking lot. “Not making it a habit,” he mutters.

“Thanks.”

Aaron looks at Andrew who’s not looking back. He lets out a long trail of smoke.

“For talking to him.”

 _Neil_ he means. Andrew doesn’t say anything else, and Aaron doesn’t know how to answer. “We’re fucked, you know,” he finally says, tipping his head up and looking at the sky. It’s all grey clouds today, but it’s still hot–the kind of heavy, humid heat that makes everything wet, languid, and sticky. He’s sweating through his t-shirt.

“Always have been,” Andrew grunts.

His phone buzzes, and Aaron pulls it out.

 **[3:23 PM] Katelyn:** Everything go okay today?

 **[3:24 PM] Aaron:** Yup. Final?

 **[3:24 PM] Katelyn:** Finished! Totally aced it. Coffee?

 **[3:24 PM] Aaron:** Sure

 **[3:24 PM] Katelyn:** 15 minutes?

He studies his phone. “Katelyn,” he says, looking back up at Andrew. It’s almost a dare. It’s almost a peace offering.

This time, Andrew is watching him. He takes another long drag of his cigarette, then flicks the butt away and stubs it out with his shoe. “See you at practice.”

Then he shoves his hands in his pockets and walks towards the dorms.

Aaron’s phone buzzes again.

 **[3:26 PM] Katelyn:** You okay?

He’s not. Not really. But she knows that.

 **[3:26 PM] Aaron** : See you in 15. Love you

 **[3:26 PM] Katelyn** : Love you too

**Author's Note:**

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